


When The Sand In The Glass Is Right

by FunkyinFishnet



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arabian Nights Fusion, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Leadership, M/M, Male Slash, Prayer, Relationship(s), Secrets, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-18
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:24:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FunkyinFishnet/pseuds/FunkyinFishnet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agron, a grieving thief, finds himself chosen to work in the palace of his kingdom’s beloved young leader, Nasir. He only wishes to die but Nasir wants more from him. He is not who Agron expects, nobody in the palace is. It’s a whole new life to navigate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Good Day

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about because I love trashy _Arabian Nights_ -style films lol. For some reason, this idea stuck. It includes a made-up language used here and there, translations will appear in the end notes of each chapter. The fic's title is a lyric from the song 'Arabian Nights' by Alan Menken, Howard Ashman, and Tim Rice, from the Disney film _Aladdin_. Enjoy :)

 

 

It was going to be a good day.

 

 

Agron glanced up at the wide blue skies with a grin. The sun was warm on their backs after several weeks of rain and the city's crops were abundant, which meant much food in the market. Much food in the market for skilful hands to grasp and secret, food for those that had need of it, as long as no guardsmen noticed...

 

 

A pebble bounced off his arm and Duro clambered down a nearby building to land at his brother's side. He looked as Agron felt – ready to make the most of the day. Agron cuffed him lightly round the head, eyes as always briefly sweeping his brother to ensure he was well. It was a habit born years before, when his mother had told him to take care of Duro. Now she was just a memory.

 

 

Duro slapped his shoulder, throwing him out of his musings and back to the wideness of the present. “Thinking of your princeling, brother?”

 

 

Agron went to cuff his brother again but Duro dodged the blow and ran off down a narrow alleyway, laughing. Agron took off after him, shouting threats, his mind full of who Duro always taunted him about. Duro liked to laugh about how speechless Agron had become when they had seen the _quasi-ama_ Nasir pass by on horseback, heavily guarded of course, on his way back to the palace. How could Agron have failed to lose all speech when faced with such a man? Nasir had been but a fleeting image, beautiful and bronzed, features exquisitely cut. Agron's heart had run so quickly, he had frozen in place, unable to look away. Duro had laughed heartily at his expression.

 

 

Of course Nasir was now _ama_ , a position gained after his father's death. Some nights, when it was cold and they had no food in their bellies, it was only the memory of his mother and that brief beautiful image of Nasir that warmed Agron. There was little else in the Kingdom of Soman that so stirred his heart.

 

 

But now, it was breakfast, there was food to steal and a brother to catch and soundly beat. Agron could hear Duro up ahead, the patter of his brother's feet as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. Agron wove in and out of the crowds, concentrating on hunting his brother. There! He darted left, taking a shortcut, and then grabbed a handful of his brother's long braided hair before Duro could run past. Duro yelped and put up a fight as Agron tumbled them both to the ground. But Agron was the stronger and eventually he pinned his brother, growling insults and laughter as Duro laughed with him and complained that he would surely die beneath Agron's great weight.

 

 

It truly was a good day.

 

 

*

 

 

By the time the sun had dipped in the sky, Agron was of a different mind. The gods fucked them deeply. His mind was full of footsteps once more, only this time it was the familiar step of guardsmen, eager to see him dead. And Duro was not at his side. Panic tore at Agron, forcing his feet faster, his mind sharper. Where was Duro?

 

 

“Brother!”

 

 

Duro appeared suddenly, feinting in from the right. They had already abandoned the stolen meat and cheeses that were now costing them so dear. Agron breathed again and did not lose speed in running, Duro keeping pace. The guards did not cease their chase either.

 

 

“They are keen this night for our blood,” Duro gasped out.

 

 

Agron nodded, the guards were indeed unrelenting in their chase. Perhaps he and Duro had been recognised? They were talented at surviving and at gaining at what they needed, they had learned such skills from a very young age, and many times they had slipped free from angry guardsmen. So far, they had escaped unpunished. But they were no longer boys, they had both passed twenty years and the guards still wished for their deaths.

 

 

“Fuck!” Agron swore as he nearly tumbled over a heap of loaded baskets.

 

 

He glanced over his shoulder, the guards were gaining ground. Duro saw it too and his jaw tensed. “I will distract them.”

 

 

“No, Duro, I...”

 

 

But Duro had already taken leave, darting in another direction. Agron cursed and continued to run. He heard people shouting and then his brother's voice joining in. It all came from above. His brother was on the roofs again? They both knew the roofs as well as they knew the streets. Duro could lead the guards in a merry dance. A number still pursued Agron though and he didn't have time to check on his brother but he had to look, it was Duro...

 

 

He looked up in time to see men with bows, arrows notched and ready to fly. He dived for the shadows, for any cover from the bird's eye view that the guards had gained. Where was Duro? He was a greater target for them. Agron's heart pounded as he dodged in and out of the darkness, attempting to free himself from threats both above and below. It felt as though walls were closing in around him. Oh, where the fuck was Duro?!

 

 

An arrow hit the ground, too close to Agron's foot. He jerked to the left and attempted evasion. He could hear Duro still, shouting and laughing. He was likely attempting to distract the archers, it was something that both Agron and Duro had often done before, to keep each other safe. If only Agron could see him. Agron pushed himself onwards, his left arm grazed by another too-close arrow. He could hear the guards' footsteps closing in. He had to get deeper into the city.

 

 

A cry tore through Agron's thoughts. Many floors above, an archer was keenly aiming at him, but the cry had been Duro's. Where was he? There was the barest pause, then Agron saw a blur, a glimpse of his brother, Duro leaping towards the archer. But he was leaping too far, too hard, and the archer was on the roof's very edge.

 

 

It was Agron who screamed now, as his brother and the archer tumbled over the roof's lip.

 

 

It was Agron who ran to cradle his brother's crumpled body. He would later swear that Duro had smiled at him, before life had fled his eyes.

 

 

It was Agron's heart that broke, shattering into so many pieces. It was Agron's rage that grew in his silent chest, as he heard guards approaching.

 

 

It was Agron who knew nothing for some time as his head was struck and darkness consumed his world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  _quasi-ama_ \- beloved leader-to-be  
>  _ama_ \- beloved leader


	2. At The Ama's Request

 

 

People talked, but Agron heard nothing. He was chained to a wall, in a place with high barred windows and sneering guards. People came to talk to him, but his head swam with grief and he could not think of anything else. His brother was dead. Duro was gone.

 

 

Agron dreamt of him, of his brother's laugh, of how he stumbled when spying a pretty girl, of how he teased Agron. He would tease no more. Duro was dead, and Agron wished he was too.

 

 

“Rise up, you fuck!”

 

 

Someone backhanded him and then threw water on him. Agron spluttered, untethered from Duro's laughter, and looked up to find a man dressed in the colours of the Chosen Men. It was a familiar figure. Crixus, Agron remembered, Crixus the warrior hero who had helped fight off the Romus people when they had come to conquer Cull, the Kingdom of Soman's capitol, after the old _ama_ ’s death. Crixus had been made Captain of the Chosen Men as a reward. His body bore the scars of victory, bared by the open _kelsmar_ – the traditional shirt without sleeves – that he wore with the loose _mattas_ that suited the season's heat. His feet were bare and strong and there was a sword sheathed at his back.

 

 

Agron snarled through bloodied lips. “I will die here, you shit.”

 

 

Crixus grasped a handful of Agron's matted hair and attempted to raise him to his feet. Pain lanced through Agron and he kicked out at Crixus, catching his belly, then his legs. Crixus grunted but did not loosen his grip.

 

 

“You will not die until the ama has seen you,” he ground out.

 

 

Agron's efforts to be released and left alone slackened. The _ama_ , the beloved ruler, Nasir. Nasir wished to see him?

 

 

“Why?” he breathed reedily.

 

 

Crixus snorted and another member of the Chosen Men came forward to grasp Agron by the arm and haul him to his feet. When Agron began to fight such invasion on instinct, a blade was pressed to his throat. A dark-skinned woman, with beaded hair bound upwards, was at his back, holding the blade. Agron could feel her breath on his neck and her hand did not tremble.

 

 

“Because he requests it,” she said, soft and cool like rain.

 

 

Agron swallowed, feeling the bite of the blade draw a single bead of his blood. If he fought, he would die here and wake in the next life at Duro's side once more. But to see Nasir first, to drink in that beautiful image before leaving this empty world behind...

 

 

“I will rise.”

 

 

*

 

 

They unlocked Agron's chains and took him directly above ground. He was in the palace, he realised dazedly, he had been held in the ama's dungeon. Why? He had not stolen from the ama, had he? The ama never took an interest in common starving thieves. What in Cull was going on?

 

 

The palace was even bigger than Agron had ever imagined, with space and light in abundance. The Chosen Men bowed their heads at Crixus and some offered reports which Crixus acknowledged. Women in fine silks and with covered faces gathered in groups, their hands and arms painted with _meni_ which told their stories. Pretty young men sat amongst some such groups, wearing their own _meni_. Agron wondered which the ama preferred.

 

 

He was brought to a small but opulent room. Its walls were painted with great scenes from Soman’s history, its former _amas_ lying in state or raising swords in victory. Only a few people were actually present, gathered near a large carved wooden chair on a raised platform. Nasir was sat on it.

 

 

Agron sucked in his breath and his feet stumbled, but Crixus forced him forwards. Agron couldn’t tear his eyes from Nasir. The ama wore a _kelsmar_ of his own, in jewel tones that suited the shade of his skin, and loose _mattas_. His feet were bare, of course, but there were several beaded threads tied around each ankle and many around his wrists. A beautiful blue jewel hung from a fine chain around his neck, declaring him _ama_ , and his dark hair flowed long past his shoulders. He was breath-taking and his eyes were fixed on Agron.

 

 

Nasir looked comfortable, as did the woman sat at his feet. She was slim and pale with a long braid of brown hair and she was dressed in dark blue, unadorned by jewellery. She was favoured indeed to sit so close to the _ama_. Behind them were two women, one fair and one dark-haired. Both wore dark colours like the midnight skies, edged with pale gold, their eyes often swept the room but they always came back to focus on Nasir. The _ama_ was blessed indeed.

 

 

Once the group was several paces from Nasir’s chair, Crixus pushed Agron to his knees. Agron did not attempt to get up, he deserved to wallow at Nasir’s feet and he would, taking such beautiful images with him as he passed on to the next life. He gazed at Nasir, waiting for the _ama_ to speak. He would hang on every word.

 

 

“You are one of the thieves my Men complain of?”

 

 

Agron nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Nasir continued, his eyes intent. “I grieve for your loss.”

 

 

Agron blinked, shocked at the ama’s words. Why should Nasir care? Thick painful grief stirred deep in Agron and he nodded again, knowing that any words he loosed now would be angry at the guards who had chased him and caused Duro’s fall, angry at himself for not keeping his brother safe. He would not shed tears here.

 

 

After some silence, Nasir finally broke it “Have him fed and his wounds tended to.”

 

 

Agron, dazed and very confused, was led to a less-opulent area of the palace, where he was fed well and his sparse wounds tended to. The dark-haired woman sat beside him, likely making sure he behaved. She revealed her name was Naevia and that she too was one of the Chosen Men. From the way she and Crixus looked at each other, Agron could silently guess how she came to hold such a position. Then he remembered her blade steady at his throat, perhaps that was the reason too. There were whispers that Nasir allowed women to rise in rank, in a way that his father had never allowed. But, the whispers claimed, despite such elevations, Nasir filled the palace with so many women for the very same reason his father had - to keep him company, to warm his bed.

 

 

“Why did the _ama_ place you among his Men?” Agron asked abruptly, his mouth full of chunky _anky_ and his mind trying to learn as much of Nasir as it could.

 

 

Naevia was sharpening one of her knives and did not look at him as she spoke. “His uncle laid claim to me against my will. I was a serving girl for many years before I caught his eye. My love for Crixus did not matter.”

 

 

Agron tried to imagine the stoic woman beside him in a silk _yanti_ , her arms covered with her story, her eyes lowered and reverent. Her and Crixus’s love must not have reached a handfasting if Nasir’s uncle was able to lay claim to her. So Nasir’s father had allowed her to be taken?

 

 

Naevia continued, in the same even tone of voice, a tone that commanded no interruptions or questions. “When the old _ama_ died, the new _ama_ changed things. He could not part me from his Uncle, but he could ensure that I was provided with all I had need of. I freed myself and the new _ama_ oversaw my handfasting to Crixus, the blood of his uncle still warm on my skin.”

 

 

Agron had stopped eating, his heartbeat speeding up at Naevia’s words. She had murdered the _ama_ ’s uncle, and Nasir had made it so. Agron did not know much about the _ama_ ’s family – none of them lived in the palace – yet it had always been said that they were a loving and strong family. Nasir had been willing to have a hand in his uncle’s murder, all for the sake of a serving girl? He was not the man he appeared to be.

 

 

Naevia had stopped sharpening her knife and was now securing it onto her belt. She finally looked at Agron. There was a deep scar on her cheek and her eyes were fathomless and unblinking. It was little wonder Nasir had asked her to join the Chosen Men, those who kept both his household and himself safe from harm.

 

 

“He gifted me with so much and I still work to repay him,” Naevia told Agron. “See that you don’t spit in the face of such generosity.”

 

 

Bewildered, Agron watched as Naevia swiftly left the table for where Crixus waited. The Captain’s eyes softened a shade when gazing at his beloved. Another man in the colours of the Chosen Men sat down heavily at Agron’s side.

 

 

“Donar, I’m to show you the run of this place and what’s expected of you,” he announced.

 

 

“…the fuck?”

 

 

Donar laughed and yanked Agron up to his feet with easy strength. His skin was tanned and taut and he had a pair of axes strapped to his back. Surely this man was here to see Agron executed? But Donar pushed him out of the room and into another where a _kelsmar_ and a pair of _mattas_ in the colours of the Chosen Men waited for Agron.

 

 

He didn’t have the words anymore to communicate his confusion but Donar just gestured for him to change and then dragged him out to a balcony which provided a beautiful view of Cull in all its splendour. The new uniform felt odd and itchy against Agron’s skin and he could hear Duro laughing in his head. He turned to Donar with a helplessly baffled look on his face.

 

 

Donar didn’t laugh, instead he told Agron how he used to fight in the streets for money, how men would bet on his success or failure. Agron had done that too, to feed his brother when the guardsmen weren’t around looking for him.

 

 

“Our _ama_ ’s father liked to gain guardsmen this way. He would have spies take note of who won the most fights and then would have them offered food and a bed to sleep in before offering them training, for regular money. Everyone accepted, though not all joined the guards’ ranks. Those who did especially well as guardsmen were lifted higher into becoming a Chosen Man.”

 

 

“As you were?”

 

 

“Only months before the _ama_ ’s father died. Our _ama_ has sharp eyes and had already decided who he would trust to guard both his life and those he cares for, he promoted guardsmen and saw many from his Men’s ranks sent to the executioner, for they had been in the Romus’s pay and he believed that they had caused his father’s death.”

 

 

Agron could hear what Donar was saying between his words – Nasir had been fucking revolutionary. And he desired for Agron to be part of this? Agron’s head was pounding and he felt as though he must be dreaming, still outcold and lying beside his brother’s still body. This could not be true.

 

 

“Flies are caught in greater numbers with honey. The ama gives us all reason to be loyal,” Donar jerked his chin towards the door. “One last stop before the _ama_ speaks to you.”

 

 

Nasir would speak to him, again? Donar did not let Agron asks questions and led him to a small room with a curved door. It was a Sol, a Place of Peace And Remembrance, filled with many candles burning on metal plinths. The majority had tokens laid out before them, marking a person mourned. There was a large circular window that let in the sun, and at night, would let the moon shine through. Donar stroked a thumb to a small clay vessel set before a lit candle, a sad look on his face. He did not reveal who he mourned, rather he gestured to a pile of wax tokens.

 

 

“If you have nothing to leave here...”

 

 

Donar drew back to the door, giving Agron a little space, and Agron swallowed hard. He did not have a lock of Duro’s hair, as he should for such a prayer. This was not right. A couple of tears squeezed out and trailed down Agron’s face as he shakily reached for a sharp metal pin and a wax token. He thought of Duro’s laughter and teasing, his fast feet and faster hands, how often he had made their mother smile. Duro’s smile had been like the sun. Agron scratched the D of Duro’s name, allowing a tear or two to land on the wax before placing the token in front of an unlit candle. Taking a deep breath, he dipped the candle’s wick into another’s flame and whispered feverish prayers and apologies, the shape of a mourner’s prayer. If a few of his words cursed the gods for leaving him behind whilst his brother stepped beyond into the next life, Agron did not regret them.

 

 

He stared at the flame for a while and at the wax token before turning back to Donar. Whatever happened next, he had been allowed to pray for Duro’s journey onwards and since his brother would not have a true burial, this was blessing enough.

 

 

“You can visit whenever your time is free,” Donar stated as he led the way to the room where Agron had first met Nasir.

 

 

Agron shook his head. He could see no logic in him being corralled into the Men. He was known for being quick on his feet and using his fists, it was rare he backed down from a fight, but there were other more notorious fighters on the streets. What was so special about him? Why couldn't he be allowed the peace of death?

 

 

Nasir was still sat upon the wooden chair, but he was alone this time. He thanked Donar by name and Donar bowed briefly and sharply from the waist before exiting. Agron was about to drop to his knees when Nasir spoke.

 

 

“You may stand, if it is more comfortable.”

 

 

Agron paused, was the ama truly giving him a choice, or...now that his head felt a little clearer, a thought came to him, was this a test? Had the past few hours all been a test? Everybody knew stories of the _amas_ , how they could be capricious and cruel. Agron had met many people with tales to tell of great dreams dangled before them, only to have such temptations taken away. Nasir might be beautiful, but he might also be merely enjoying a sport.

 

 

Agron lifted his chin and stood.

 

 

Nasir’s smile was small and soft, not amused or arch as Agron had perhaps expected. It made heat spread through his chest. Nasir was so very beautiful, what did he want from Agron? What games was he playing?

 

 

“What name should I call you?” Nasir asked.

 

 

It was a striking question, the _ama_ could call Agron by whatever name pleased him, but instead he was courteously asking. Agron paused, letting the question and consideration sink in. If this was a game, it was needlessly complicated. Agron had no information to give, the only person who mattered to him was dead – the same fate that awaited him. Agron longed for it, with a sudden deep pang, but looking at Nasir, he also wished to leave some memory upon the man, for thoughts of the complex beautiful _ama_ would stay long with Agron into the next life.

 

 

“Agron.”

 

 

“Agron,” Nasir pronounced the name correctly, causing Agron to shiver. “Your ancestors must be from Kleon then.”

 

 

Agron’s eyebrows shot up, Nasir could tell his heritage so easily? It was known that the _ama_ was highly educated by the best tutors and that he had been learning books and swords from a young age, but to be able to read which small village Agron’s parents’ parents had been born in, that was astonishing. His thoughts must have shown on his face because Nasir’s smile widened.

 

 

“I am glad to find you in Cull however, as I have need of you.”

 

 

Ah, here the trap sprung, or Donar’s impossible words proved true. “I’ve heard you gather numbers for the Chosen Men in this manner.”

 

 

“Is that so strange?”

 

 

Agron’s laugh was broken and raw, speaking of the weight he now carried. His eyes were wet when he spoke “Apologies, _ama_ , but this is the strangest thing I have witnessed beyond dreams.”

 

 

Nasir did not seem angry or offended; instead he nodded and leaned forward a little. “As strange as a man welcoming death, welcoming one last moment with his dying brother, rather than saving his own skin?”

 

 

Agron’s blood ran cold but Nasir was not finished.

 

 

“It is not so strange to you, but here, such loyalty is a rare thing. I pick my Men with great care, too often my family has suffered through treachery and betrayal, too often my people’s lives have been torn apart by such actions. I need those whose hearts bleed for my people, who possess love greater than greed or selfishness, who would see the unjust punished and this city flourish under my rule.”

 

 

It was an impassioned speech and Agron was stunned into silence, unable to find the words to answer with. There was truth clear on Nasir’s face, his careful manner from before now torn away to show the stark sincerity of the man – he cared for his Kingdom, for the city of Cull from which he ruled, and he would not see anyone tear it apart or tear it from him. More warmth flooded Agron and he looked at Nasir with reverence and sadness.

 

 

“Your words stir and speak of great things, but I would join my brother in the afterlife. I cannot…life is not life without him.”

 

 

Nasir looked at him, a look of great melancholy sweeping him, then he stood and drew close to Agron. Agron’s breaths shook and became heavier. Nasir smelled of candle wax and of the acid of overripe _taleb_ fruit, and he was so close. Agron resisted the urge to reach out and touch the _ama_ ’s smooth skin.

 

 

“I too had a brother, but he was taken from me. The Romus people claim it was not them, but his last task had been to deliver a message, telling them to leave our borders. He was due to be _ama_ , so perhaps it was someone within these walls, wishing to shift the balance of power elsewhere. I only know that his voice haunts my thoughts still and his presence is greatly missed.”

 

 

His eyes held pain, they also held Agron in place. His breath was touching the _ama_ ’s body and yet the _ama_ was not moving.

 

 

“Your grief is your own, Agron, but you can do great things with it.”

 

 

Agron licked his dry lips; he felt his heartbeat racing like a Cull horse. He felt as though he was holding his breath, then Nasir blinked and almost smiled and the thick tension was broken.

 

 

“I will not force you. You would be under Crixus’s command and he is a hard man to please. But you would be rewarded for your service, food, money, shelter, and the honour of serving your _ama_. I hope that would be enough.”

 

 

Agron thought of the dirt streets that awaited him beyond the palace walls. Out there, he could die easily at another’s hand; he could choose to fight the next time that wagers were laid; he could be with Duro once more. But he could imagine Duro’s face at such a reunion, his disgust and anger at Agron throwing away such opportunity. He could almost hear Duro – _I will wait here, brother. Why do you rush past such fucking riches? Why do you rush past **him**?_

 

 

Agron bit his lip at the very thought of his brother’s voice, but he found himself nodding and Nasir’s smile was like the brightest of stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translations**  
>  _kelsmar_ \- traditional shirt without sleeves, always worn unfastened and open  
>  _mattas_ \- loose trousers, gathered and tied at the waist  
>  _meni_ \- henna tattoos, traditionally worn by the beautiful young men and women who gather in the front hall of the palace, hoping to be chosen by the _ama_. Some work in the palace as servants. The _meni_ they wear tells of who they are, their story.  
>  _anky_ \- a thick broth  
>  _yanti_ \- a beautiful and highly-colourful silk dress that falls to its wearer's ankles. Usually sleeveless and easy and revealing to dance in.  
>  _taleb_ \- a yellow fruit, like a much smaller grapefruit.


	3. The Hell Of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warning** : Contains descriptions of past physical abuse suffered by a character.

 

 

Nasir had not lied; Crixus was a hard man to please. He regularly trained a small handful of men to glean who might become Chosen Men. He told Nasir his thoughts and Nasir had the final word on who stayed. Those who were not thought to have learned enough as guardsmen were returned to those ranks, Crixus seemed to revel in grinding each man down to their last drop of sweat. Agron thought of how easily he and Duro had wended through Cull’s streets, how they had clambered up buildings and beneath market stalls. It had all seemed too impossible to begin with, but he had learned. He would learn again, he would make Nasir smile.

 

 

Donar kept him company at meal times and sparred with him, helping Agron to become adept with a broadsword. Agron liked the feel of the weapon and how well it fit in his hand, he liked the power of it.

 

 

“I see why Nasir asked for you to train,” Lugo commented with a grin.

 

 

He was armed with an impressive hammer and moved his compact muscled frame surprisingly quickly. Agron liked Lugo’s blunt way with words and his heartfelt enthusiasm for battle. Sparring with Lugo was often painful, but it was good – it gave Agron a different kind of pain to focus on. And he knew he was getting quicker, more accurate with his blows, he could feel it.

 

 

He visited the Sol regularly and left prayers to Duro, to the gods. He wondered how many candles Nasir had lit there.

 

 

He didn’t see Nasir himself. The _ama_ was busy with military meetings, which often required Crixus’s presence. Crixus was always fighting the hardest battle of all – keeping the _ama_ safe, from threats within and beyond the city walls. Agron would gladly stand between Nasir and any assassin. To die for the _ama_ , now that was Agron’s greatest wish.

 

 

He revelled in the pain Crixus rained down on him. He grinned with bloodied lips; he was not going to let that fuck beat him. To give up, that was inconceivable. Naevia watched him closely and Donar shook his head, calling Agron mad for pushing Crixus with taunts. But Crixus never broke him completely and he didn’t throw Agron out. There was respect, hidden deep in Crixus’s gaze. Agron had earned it.

 

 

One night, Nasir sent for him. Donar nudged him but didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. Did Nasir fuck his Chosen Men? Agron wanted to know. Did Nasir take them as part of their duties? But what of the girl that Agron had seen sat at the _ama_ ’s feet? Was she special or was she merely another soft body for the _ama_ 's pleasure?

 

 

Nasir was pacing when Agron greeted him. He wore only worn grey _mattas_ , his chest bare except for his ama necklace. The girl was sat beside the carved chair again, wearing the same dark blue colour. She smiled warmly at Agron, welcomingly even. Agron frowned, unsure exactly what was expected of him.

 

 

Nasir inclined his head in welcome, then turned his attention back to the girl. “Enjoy your evening, Sibyl. Be safe.”

 

 

The girl, Sibyl, smiled with great affection and gracefully got to her feet, aided by Nasir’s offered hand. He kissed her cheek, a hand palming her face tenderly, before she bowed briefly and left the room with a final smiling nod at Agron. Agron’s thoughts were left even more tangled. Nasir smiled at him and sat down.

 

 

“You’ve made quite an impression on my Captain.”

 

 

Agron snorted, not even sorry for the noise. Nasir was fully aware of the sort of man Crixus was. “I am glad for that.”

 

 

Nasir laughed, amused and thoroughly warm as he gazed at Agron. “He tells me you’re a stubborn shit, that you’ve no brains to speak of, but that unlike other current recruits, you never accept defeat.”

 

 

It was not a shining testimony, but it was the truth. Agron bowed his head to show acceptance of Nasir’s words. Nasir’s voice became softer.

 

 

“So I would ask that you remain one of my Chosen Men, to protect this place and those within in, to protect me from those who would do me harm.”

 

 

There was an official ring to the words. Here was Agron’s chance, to stand admiringly in Nasir’s shadow, to fight for this beautiful man, to die in a way that would honour Duro. His prayers had truly been answered. Unsure of the expected response, Agron bowed from the waist upwards as he had seen others do. Nasir’s smile was gentle and accepting.

 

 

“You will be beneath Crixus’s command as well as my own. He will make your life hell.”

 

 

Agron smirked, the expression so empty. “I am already there, Your Grace.”

 

 

Nasir stared at him, seeming to take in his gaze, his posture. He did not ridicule Agron or demand answers. He too had lost a brother. He simply accepted Agron’s raw words. Agron had truly never met anyone like Nasir. So much about him was puzzling. It all burrowed under Agron’s skin, bothering him at strange moments. He so often thought of the _ama_.

 

 

“You have questions,” Nasir surmised after a thick pause. “You may ask without threat of punishment.”

 

 

His face showed the genuine nature of his offer, this was no test. Agron's heart thumped quickly, how often would he receive such a privilege? And his questions were so numerous. He thought of Sibyl and the lit candles in the Place of Peace, but what tumbled from his lips was something entirely different.

 

 

“Naevia told me a story, of how she came to be handfasted to Crixus.”

 

 

Something flickered darkly in Nasir’s gaze and he lifted his chin. “My uncle, my father’s agreement with him, yes? You want to know if it’s true?”

 

 

Agron nodded, mouth dry and wondering. He’d heard so many stories, who was to say which were true? This one had stuck with him though; it felt important, it said a lot about Nasir.

 

 

“My uncle was a cruel greedy man, caring only for what he could gain. He wanted to be ama, not to protect Soman and places like Cull within it, but for the power and riches such a life would bring. My father knew this and did all he could to prevent his brother from succeeding. Once Naevia was grown, my uncle made his interest in her very clear. Her refusals made him even more determined and when my father heard of apparent alliances that my uncle was making with the Romus people, he allowed my uncle to have Naevia, as the promise of a truce.”

 

 

Nasir’s expression twisted with distaste as he recalled the tale. Agron’s stomach turned, imagining a man who would turn on his own people, his own family, for power and wealth. And Nasir’s father had given that man what he wanted, he had handed over Naevia like an offering.

 

 

Nasir nodded at the look on Agron’s face. “My father was a hard man and he gave everything for the sake of the people of Soman. When he saw the threat his brother posed, he handed over Naevia as an appeasement, for the sake of so many others who would have suffered under my uncle’s rule. I begged him not to, we fought about it often. Crixus was thrown into the dungeon for attempting to tear Naevia from my uncle’s grasp. But the ama would not be swayed.”

 

 

“But you set her free.”

 

 

“She set herself free.” Nasir’s eyes flashed. “Once my father had died, my uncle returned to the city. Naevia was with him, her hair cut short, her face and body gaunt and scarred. I was made ama and my uncle celebrated with me, but I regularly had scouts I trusted placed beyond the city’s walls, deep into Soman. They had already told me how the Romus people gathered at several different borders, clearly readying for some great movement. Whilst my uncle was distracted, I had a knife hidden in his quarters and Naevia informed of its placement. When I wished her a good night under my uncle’s watchful gaze, she thanked me for my hospitality.”

 

 

It was haunting, to hear Nasir explain from a differing viewpoint than the one afforded by Naevia. It was so freshly-painful for him, Agron noted, Nasir was still hurt by what had happened to Naevia, he cared for her that deeply. Nasir was spellbinding in such a mood, like a storm newly-shaken, a wrath that would shatter all that opposed him. Agron shivered and wanted to draw closer.

 

 

“By the time the moon was high, screams were heard. My uncle believed her broken by now, so his guard was not up as it should have been and any loyal to him were prevented from running to his aid. Naevia emerged from their quarters covered in his blood and with fire in her eyes. I oversaw her handfasting with Crixus, I wish only that I could have done more.”

 

 

Agron shook his head. Few would have done so much for those deemed so far beneath them. Crixus would likely have been killed, Naevia left to her fate despite the transparency of her captor’s loyalty. But Nasir had seen suffering and had ended it, despite what it could have meant for his kingdom and his people. Something swelled within Agron.

 

 

“And the Romus people attacked afterwards,” he voiced, piecing together the history of Cull that he had lived through with what had truly been happening in the palace at the same time.

 

 

Nasir nodded. “Cull was attacked, we lost many, but thanks to Crixus’s leadership amongst the Chosen Men, the great number of guardsmen, and the work of my Shadows, I still stand as _ama_.”

 

 

Agron’s forehead wrinkled, Shadows? It sounded too much like the stories his mother had told him, of shadows strangling those that deserved it, children’s tales that adults did not believe. Nasir jerked his chin upwards and a shadow fell across the floor. Agron whirled and spied a black-clad figure standing at a high window, an arrow notched to a bow and aimed towards him. The figure’s face was familiar – was that the dark-haired girl who had stood with Nasir beside her blonde friend?

 

 

“My Chosen Men cannot always be by my side, but my Shadows can,” Nasir explained simply, as the figure melted away again.

 

 

Agron blinked up at the window and then turned his gaze back to Nasir. There were layers upon layers to the man, and to those around him, and Agron was finding more and more to like. This was a man to serve and die for. Something gentled in Nasir’s eyes and Agron felt his body hum in response. He wasn’t fit to touch the man’s feet, but he’d dream of such things and more. How could he not, when Nasir looked like that and acted in such a way? Agron was helpless to resist. What stories he’d have for Duro.

 

 

“You will stand guard of my rooms tomorrow. A great friend returns and a celebration is being held in his name.”

 

 

Agron nodded quickly, it sounded as though he had gained his first official duty. He could do it, he would, for Nasir. Nasir looked pleased in return.

 

 

“Good. It will be a great day. Spartacus is returning to us.”


	4. A Feast Of Us

 

 

Spartacus, Agron learned, was a man who spoke for Nasir. The _ama_ could not be everywhere in Soman at once, so he had a trusted few that he would send to wherever he was needed and they would speak in his name, dealing with problems and strengthening alliances. Spartacus was leader of the trusted few, the small elite group known as the _ama_ 's Voice. Spartacus was also a name known and spoken with much reverence. Even Agron knew it – he remembered hearing a fisherman talk of an occasion when Spartacus had killed two dozen men with his bare hands. He remembered how he and Duro had laughed at such talk.

 

 

Now he was stood outside the palace as Nasir awaited Spartacus’s arrival. A messenger had already arrived that morning, rushing breathlessly through the palace to announce that Spartacus and the guardsmen who had gone with him had almost reached the gates of Cull. Nasir had smiled and had kissed Sibyl resoundingly. Something had squeezed at Agron’s heart, but alongside Donar he had dutifully followed the ama outside to where they were to greet the heralded group.

 

 

“What manner of man is he?” Agron asked Donar quietly as they waited.

 

 

“A good one, stubborn and unyielding but with a heart for the people above all else,” Donar replied just as quietly. “Crixus once loathed him but they now have an accord.”

 

 

Agron snorted; of course Crixus had loathed him, likely because Spartacus held position above him. Donar grinned, as though agreeing, before his face quickly sobered.

 

 

“He is Nasir’s most trusted man, and one who grieves greatly. He lost his wife in service to the _ama_ , she was taken by the Romus people.”

 

 

Before Agron could react, there was the sound of hoofbeats and a crowd of men on horseback rode up. The man at the head of the pack dismounted first, talking quietly to the young boy who had appeared to take hold of the horse’s reins. The others, all in guardsmen garb, dismounted and at the man’s signal, led their horses away. The man had to be Spartacus.

 

 

He was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in dark _mattas_ and a _kelsmar_ that revealed a deeply-scarred chest and tanned weathered skin. There were two swords strapped to his back and a great sadness in his gaze, a sadness that Agron could easily put a name to. Spartacus moved purposefully, like one used to the outdoor life and used to the feel of a weapon in hand. His smile was small when he approached the group, but it was also surprisingly powerful. Nasir grinned in response.

 

 

“The people of Capstan allowed you to live?” He appeared to be teasing Spartacus.

 

 

Spartacus’s lips quirked upwards for a moment. “I even bring greetings for your ears and food for your table.”

 

 

He behaved as an equal but once he was in front of the _ama_ , he dropped to one knee. “I’m honoured to be received so.”

 

 

He pressed a fist to his chest in reverence and loyalty and Nasir extended a hand towards him. Spartacus grasped it, Nasir grinned again and once Spartacus was back on his feet, they clasped forearms like brothers-in-arms. Sibyl stepped forward to receive a brief hug, then Crixus, with a pleased smile, clasped Spartacus’s forearm, a gesture that Spartacus returned and then also exchanged with Naevia. Spartacus’s gaze swept the group, acknowledging everyone, nodding at Donar and pausing briefly on Agron. Agron could feel himself weighed and assessed before Spartacus turned his attention back to the ama. Agron bristled, what was it Spartacus had seen?

 

 

“Come! There is food prepared,” Nasir announced, Sibyl on one side and Spartacus on the other.

 

 

Agron followed the group as they walked out of the sun's heat and once more into the coolness provided by the palace’s thick stone walls. They entered a large hall where a table was spread with food. Agron glanced around, there were friezes painted on the walls of enormous vibrant weddings and celebrations. Spartacus's eyes immediately fell on a woman with red hair who was talking to one of the serving girls. The woman was moon-pale, dressed in pale pink, and with no story on her arms. There was a strip of _linan_ in her hair that marked her as a widow and her eyes were tinged with sadness, but her mouth smiled at Spartacus, she was pleased to see him.

 

 

Nasir had clearly anticipated this because he directed Spartacus to sit next to the woman, Laeta. Agron recalled what he knew of her; Laeta was in charge of all the serving girls and the kitchens and the bed linens, the sort of domestic details that Nasir had no time for but that were essential for day-to-day life and for good impressions when visitors stayed. Agron had heard few serving girls complain about Laeta's authority, he wondered if Nasir's uncle had ever attempted to claim her.

 

 

Spartacus's eyes brightened around Laeta, though their conversation was sparky and could have almost been termed an argument. Agron smirked, watching them, then he realised that Nasir was smiling at him, with a hint of knowing. Agron swallowed and held Nasir's gaze. How could he ever look away?

 

 

The meal was not formal. Large roasted birds were torn apart and voices overlapped, telling Spartacus what he had missed, Spartacus in turn reporting all that had happened on his mission. Nasir joked with his subjects, with Naevia who smiled with her eyes and leaned against Crixus. Crixus himself threw a taleb fruit at Spartacus, who caught it easily and sliced it. He offered a piece to Laeta, who ate it straight from his fingers, her eyes warm and playful. It was like a family, not an official meeting.

 

 

One of Nasir’s Shadows stood close by, dark-haired and wearing red _mattas_ with a matching _keta_ fitted to her form. Her adoring expression was fixed on Nasir, Agron wondered suddenly just what was hidden beneath it. Spartacus greeted her and her face was transformed by a wide genuine smile. Donar shifted his stance and caught the woman’s gaze, for the briefest of moments his mouth was soft and heartfelt.

 

 

Ah. Agron just about resisted the urge to nudge his friend. They weren’t to talk or be distracted while on duty. He would enjoy needling Donar about how his eyes followed the dark-haired Shadow. Donar had been teasing him about his ever-present gaze towards Nasir far too often

 

 

All too soon, the meal finished and Nasir rose to leave, the others all respectfully rising as he did. Nasir nodded towards Agron.

 

 

“Agron.”

 

 

A command to accompany him. Agron nodded back, manfully ignoring Donar’s smirk, after all, he had something to throw back now. He was looking forward to it. He was happy to follow Nasir from the room, his eyes fixed on the ama as they walked towards his chambers. Agron stopped once they reached the wooden door. Nasir looked up at Agron with a contented smile, Agron’s heart hammered in response.

 

 

“Thank you, Agron. We will talk tomorrow.”

 

 

Agron could only nod as Nasir entered the room and closed the door. It was only in the silence afterwards that Agron realised that Sibyl had not entered the room also.

 

 

*

 

 

“So the _ama_ ’s Shadow…” Agron trailed off.

 

 

Donar, who was sharpening one of his axes, only raised his eyebrows. Lugo let out a deep roar of laughter and slapped at Donar’s shoulder. Donar seemed remarkably unaffected.

 

 

“Mira,” he provided. “Before Nasir was ama, he led raids on Romus camps where some of Soman's people were held prisoner. He also freed many who had never set foot in Soman but who the Romus had taken when claiming their land and stealing all of value. Spartacus had just joined the guardsmen and was the one to break Mira’s chains.”

 

 

“Her life was nothing else, all chains,” Lugo added.

 

 

Donar’s face twisted and there was clearly a story there because he nodded in agreement but continued. “She chose to learn as Naevia did. We learned side by side.”

 

 

Agron waited for more but Donar went back to his axe and Lugo had begun whistling as he poured himself a cup of something rich and red. It was Agron’s turn to frown.

 

 

“You told me her past, not of your interest in her,” he accused Donar.

 

 

Donar’s grin was extremely smug as he got to his feet, sliding the axe back into its fastenings. “You’re right. I didn’t.”

 

 

He walked off to attend to his duties, leaving a frustrated Agron without a story to chew on. All Lugo did was laugh.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Translation**  
>  _linan_ \- sun-bleached cloth, used for bedclothes by poorer families. When a strip of linan is worn a woman's hair, using braided into it, it signifies her status as a widow.  
>  _keta_ \- a garment worn by women, brief and tightly laced across the chest.


	5. Story Seeker

 

 

Sibyl was crying. Agron froze in the doorway. Sibyl wore a pale apricot yanti studded with silver beading and there were tears falling down her fair face. Nasir was talking to her, quiet and fierce, one of his hands endlessly stroking her back. Sibyl nodded unhappily and took a few deep breaths. Then, quickly and deftly, she adjusted the veil which lay around her shoulders so that it covered her face, revealing only her eyes. Her tears were now invisible.

 

 

Nasir smiled faintly and then turned to beckon Agron in. He had known that Agron was there the whole time, Agron realised, and he had allowed Agron to witness such a private fragile moment. Agron had no idea what to say as he approached the silent pair. Nasir was dressed in green – a colour of celebration, though his expression was a shade too heavy and sad.

 

 

“You stood well yesterday. I would have you on duty more often.”

 

 

A warm wave of pride spread through Agron. He had pleased the _ama_. He bowed slightly. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

 

 

“You enjoyed yourself?”

 

 

Agron thought of Naevia’s smile, Spartacus’s appearance, his interactions with Laeta, Donar’s eyes softening when alighting on Mira. “I learned a lot.”

 

 

Nasir’s look was knowing. “And gathered more questions.”

 

 

Agron nodded, his gaze skittering to Sibyl because she was the cause of so many of his questions. Nasir looked at him, worn and weighed-down, and Sibyl was so still, appearing not to be upset anymore, merely curious and somehow encouraging. Agron had the urge to ask her questions too.

 

 

But of course he didn't ask them, Nasir looked so buried by other things, so silence reigned and Agron gazed at the _ama_ , unable to stop enjoying such a sight while also wishing he could bear what loaded Nasir down. At last Nasir broke the silence with an air of disappointed understanding that tore at Agron’s insides. “Spartacus will spar with you today. He wishes to know those who pledge their lives to guard mine.”

 

 

“Yes, _ama_.”

 

 

He was apparently dismissed. The questions were still bubbling but Agron did not push them past his lips. Sibyl nodded at him and Nasir raised his chin.

 

 

“You only find answers when you ask questions, and if you ask whose story it is to tell.”

 

 

That was definitely a dismissal. Agron swallowed and drank in a last glimpse of the beautiful confusing couple before leaving the room. He went immediately to the Sol and lit another candle for Duro, his eyes desperately seeking answers in the flame. But Duro stayed silent until a guardsman arrived to take Agron to Spartacus.

 

 

The man was stood outside upon the sand in one of many large areas surrounded by high walls, fine places to practice. He held two swords and wore a serious expression. The sounds of others practising, the clash of metal on metal, of men fighting bare-fisted, surrounded Agron. It was a sound that comforted; it had been part of his life for many years – fighting for money, fighting to survive, tumbling with Duro.

 

 

Spartacus gestured for him to arm himself. “I’m told you are a challenge.”

 

 

Agron snorted, unsheathing his sword. “Crixus does not speak of my swordwork.”

 

 

Spartacus’s reply was to lunge forward suddenly, swords flashing in the bright sun, Agron was only just able to parry. Spartacus’s strokes were strong and efficient, he did not hit out in anger, he could not be drawn into making emotional mistakes. He was a tactician, Agron realised, a man who thought carefully before he acted. A great contrast to Crixus, and to Agron himself.

 

 

They fought for a long hard while and many times, Agron found himself felled with blades pointed at his throat, until at last Spartacus indicated that they were done. He offered a pitcher of water, for refreshment and for washing away sweat. Agron gratefully accepted it for both purposes. Spartacus made use of another full pitcher and offered a small thoughtful smile.

 

 

“You fight well.”

 

 

Agron nodded in thanks, from Spartacus the compliment was great. “I’ve had practice enough.”

 

 

Something in Spartacus’s expression shifted and Agron was suddenly reminded that he was looking at a man who had suffered a terrible loss. “I am sorry, for the grief you carry.”

 

 

A lump formed in Agron’s throat, matching the pain that lanced through him at any reminder of Duro’s bloodied absence. But he managed to answer. “And I am sorry, for your grief also.”

 

 

The silence between them was respectful and aching, thoughts no doubt burdened by the pain they both felt. But it was understanding too – they both knew, like Nasir, what it was to live each day with a great tear deep inside. Spartacus resheathed his swords and shook water from his close-cut hair.

 

 

“Crixus may speak ill of you, but he believes you will do anything to protect the ama.”

 

 

Agron’s reply was simple, fierce, and absolute. “I would die for him.”

 

 

“I saw how your eyes rested on him.” Spartacus pressed a brief hand to Agron’s shoulder. “It is a thing which makes him happy, so I thank you.”

 

 

Agron’s tongue felt heavy and confused. His gaze on Nasir made the _ama_ happy? No, he amused Nasir, but Nasir held no well of affection for him, only respect and perhaps gratitude for his service. That was all. Agron’s heart beat fast regardless.

 

 

Spartacus’s gaze did not judge, but it held him fast. “The palace is full of stories. If you are to truly make it your home and your duty, you should learn them.”

 

 

His words chimed with Nasir’s – ask whose story it is to tell. Agron wet his lips and thought of the many questions he had. Perhaps he could ask Spartacus, the man seemed to be saying that he could. Agron was so full of unanswered questions, so he squared his shoulders and spoke

 

 

“Like you and Laeta.”

 

 

Spartacus did not look offended; instead he merely nodded and drained his pitcher of water.

 

 

“Laeta’s husband was a wealthy trader and a man of Capstan, a large prosperous city just beyond Soman’s borders. He supported the Romus people, they were all Capstan had known for many years and they had been generous and cruel in equal measures. I was sent there to speak of Soman, to offer an alternative rule. Laeta regarded the Romus well but wished for no killing on the Capstan streets. She begged her husband to consider trading with Soman, but he threatened to torch his grain stores. He died by my hand before he could drop the torch.”

 

 

Agron struggled for words. This was not the story he had expected, it explained the _linan_ in Laeta’s hair, the sadness sometimes in her expression. But how had they travelled from her husband’s blood drenching Spartacus’s sword to sharing intimate conversation?

 

 

“She was your prisoner?” Agron guessed.

 

 

Spartacus shook his head. “Any who wished to leave Capstan for Soman, for Cull, were granted leave to do so, but many chose to stay and rebuild. Capstan governs itself now but its leaders have an agreement with the _ama_ and he has proven himself a generous and firm ally. Laeta wished to meet the man who had caused such force against the Romus.”

 

 

Now Spartacus’s smile softened, no longer the soldier remembering blood spilled but a man remembering something more. “It is a long journey from Capstan, especially when avoiding all Romus contact. Laeta and I exchanged many hard words, but we reached an understanding.”

 

 

There were stories slivered between his sentences, but Agron did not push for them. He could guess well what was being left unsaid – Spartacus and Laeta had found some measure of comfort and pleasure together during the long cool nights. Clearly it had not flowered into a handfasting, but what they had was a kind of happiness and it suited them. Agron recalled their warm expressions and biting words that first night upon Spartacus's return. It was their sport and their comfort.

 

 

“And Laeta found a place in Cull,” he guessed aloud.

 

 

Spartacus nodded. “She ran the household in Capstan and takes enjoyment in such activity. She knows every word whispered by serving girls in the most secret of corners and what the young boys are saying in the horse yard. It is a very different kind of warfare, but warfare it is and she excels.”

 

 

She hid it well, Agron mused, recalling how calm and in control Laeta always appeared, ready to listen, the perfect trap for visitors. And it seemed that even those who served under her command believed that the palace held safe places for gossip. How often had Romus spies been uprooted because whispers had been discovered by Laeta? But why?

 

 

“The _ama_ impressed her enough to gain her loyalty?” Agron sounded rich with disbelief, despite his own similar circumstance, and Spartacus did not take offence.

 

 

“They spoke for many hours, Laeta railed against the slaughter she had witnessed in Capstan, the pain she had suffered.” Spartacus's voice grew quieter. “But the _ama_ told her of his past, of the pain he still carries, and demonstrated that he was not merely playing with people's lives as a child plays with toys. Laeta still loathes violence, but she understands it better now.”

 

 

Laeta had found another home, a place where her talents were greatly used, Agron surmised. He nodded his head to Spartacus – the man had told him much when Agron had imparted very little.

 

 

“Thank you, for the story.”

 

 

Spartacus nodded back. “I would hear yours, when you wish to share it.”

 

 

It was not a command, but it was a dismissal so Agron left quickly with much to think about as he returned to guard duty. That night, he dreamed of blood on swords, Duro and Nasir's voices intertwining in the torchlight. He awoke with a fast-beating heart and very little pain in the hollow of his chest. Rather, there was the unexpected warmth of comfort.


	6. The Dance

 

 

“What have you learned?”

 

 

Nasir was eating his morning meal, Sibyl sat beside him free of tears. Agron was glad to see her well; he could not truly hate any who made the _ama_ happy, though her presence still always pained him. Nasir’s eyes were pinned on him now, seeking an answer. Agron wet his dry lips, heart on fire under that gaze. It should not be so but his body remained unconvinced.

 

 

“Stories, Your Grace.”

 

 

Nasir’s smile made the fire burn hotter in Agron’s chest. “Seek more and tell me of them.”

 

 

*

 

 

Agron knew of Naevia and Crixus, and of Spartacus and Laeta. He knew pieces of Nasir’s past and present and some of Mira and Donar. There was more to learn there though and he intended on asking his friend. When they gained a meal together mid-morning, Mira unexpectedly sat at Donar's side. It was as though she knew what he sought. Had Spartacus passed word? Had Nasir?

 

 

Suspicion closed Agron’s mouth. Was this all a test? Mira’s blank expression became surprisingly impish. She looked entirely different.

 

 

“Ask.”

 

 

It was a taunt, a dare. It was…something that Duro might have said. Agron swallowed. There was no one else within hearing distance, Donar had chosen a corner secluded from all others peopling the room. They could speak freely, and suspicious or not, Agron wanted to know.

 

 

“You were freed by Spartacus and trained to become a Chosen Man.”

 

 

“Only to become a Shadow,” Donar filled in, his affection for Mira clear as his arm pressed against hers.

 

 

Mira smiled at him before turning her gaze once more towards Agron. “That wasn’t a question.”

 

 

Agron blinked, captured for a moment by the clear bond between them. He had assumed that they were friends, that Donar’s feelings were unspoken, not that they were intertwined. Away from her duties, Mira appeared younger and free of cares and stoic watchfulness. It was quite a trick, to disguise her true self with such a differing attitude whilst protecting the _ama_.

 

 

Such thoughts pushed a question out “Who are you?”

 

 

Mira’s smile curled and she spooned up thick anky, doughy shapes bobbing in the bowl. She looked pleased that he'd asked.

 

 

“My mother danced for the Romus's ruler before I was born. It is said that she could bring entire rooms to silence by the movement of her hands alone. Before I had taken my first steps, I was sold to that ruler, to learn the dances, to be like my mother.”

 

 

Mira paused and fluidly gestured, her fingers fluttering, then swooping. They were simple movements, but they made something catch in Agron's throat. Mira smiled slightly and reached for her bowl. The sudden gracefulness was hidden once more.

 

 

“When I wasn't dancing or entertaining the ruler and his guests, I was in chains with the other dancers. I was too valuable to be given freedom. Then one day, when the ruler was away, Spartacus cut through the villa. He sliced away my chains and offered us a choice – to find our own way or to come to Soman, where we could make a home for ourselves and those who wished to could even journey to the capital, Cull. I chose Cull.”

 

 

Agron's expression puckered. Mira had danced, clearly with great skill, and like so many it seemed, had chosen Soman after being rescued by its people. But she didn't possess the vengeful hardness of Naevia, so how had she shifted from dancer to a warrior so trusted and skilled that she intimately guarded the _ama_ 's life?

 

 

He asked and less than a moment later, a blade was against his throat. Donar didn't seem surprised; instead he stole a dough ball from Mira's bowl, a smirk adorning his face.

 

 

Mira's face was hard now, like the Shadow he had seen by Nasir's side. This was the warrior, not the woman.

 

 

“To dance, to fight, both are skills of movement. I turned one to the other. It wasn't easy, but I did it.”

 

 

She eased back, the blade settling somewhere on her lap. Donar smiled at her, receiving a laughing shove to his shoulder for his thievery of her food. Agron clenched his teeth, his blood up from the almost-attack. By contrast, Mira seemed smiling and free-spirited again. How many different people was she?

 

 

“The _ama_ has guards enough,” Agron said at last, grasping for more of her story. “Men trained to die for him, a woman too. You could dance for him instead.”

 

 

Mira's smile was not entirely pleasant, but she answered him. “Within these walls, the _ama_ has seen the scope of a woman's warfare, Naevia ensured that. In many other cities, other kingdoms, people are blind to such things so we are his advantage.”

 

 

Visitors would assume that the ama had his Shadows with him for intimate company; why else would the women follow him everywhere? If he was ever in danger, he would be protected. Agron nodded, showing his understanding and acceptance. Nasir had sharp wiles beneath his beauty, wiles that he used secretly and well against snakes like his uncle and forces like the Romus. Agron was impressed, parts of him heating in dangerous ways as he thought of Nasir’s cleverness, and the way that his hair fell about his shoulders. He had no right to think of the _ama_ in such a way, he would surely be dead before Nasir and his beloved were handfasted. That was the way it should be.

 

 

Mira finished her food and intertwined her fingers with Donar’s. It was a sight Agron was privileged to see, the pair never seemed to touch in public.

 

 

“Why do you trust me with this?” he asked suddenly.

 

 

Mira’s laugh wasn’t cruel, but it was amused. “If your intention was to kill the _ama_ , you would trip over your cock while attempting assassination. And you have been watched closely since your arrival, any words spoken or gestures meant in harm towards the _ama_ would eventually ensure your end.”

 

 

He had been watched? It was a sensible course of action, he was a stranger to the palace, he could have been paid to gain information, or to let others in, or to do the deed himself. But who had been watching him? The Shadows watched Nasir and the Chosen Men had many protective duties to attend to, the only one who had spent enough time with Agron to gain any insight was…

 

 

Agron stared at Donar. “You would kill me?”

 

 

Donar stared back, a single eyebrow raised. “If your words or deeds ever cause the _ama_ great harm, I would not hesitate. You would do the same to me, that is why you still live.”

 

 

“You hold no secrets, Agron, you are an open wound.” Mira’s voice was quieter, almost gentle, and her smile was not cold. “You love him and will protect him with your life. You have passed no words on, nor have you used the stories gained to cause dissent. You have our trust.”

 

 

But Donar’s axes would be for his neck should he waver from his current behaviour, Agron knew that and was glad of it. Nasir should be so fiercely protected. He nodded again, these were good people. Like him, they would die, and kill, for Nasir.

 

 

“The _ama_ likes you, it is a great thing for him to ask you to understand us,” Mira continued, her tone still soft.

 

 

At Agron’s surprised look, Donar chuckled. “You cannot think he asks that of every Chosen Man?”

 

 

Yes, Agron had thought that. Why else would Nasir have asked such a thing of Agron? As he attempted to puzzle this out, Mira rose to her feet. Her clothing was pale gold, giving her the appearance of a costly treasure. Agron wondered what a sight she must have been dancing before the Romus people, dragged into their midst every night for entertainment, hands pawing at her, mouths taking of her. Nasir had seen what they had not.

 

 

He turned to Donar with a sudden flash of memory. “You still have not spoken of what lies between you. Why?”

 

 

“The _ama_ knows of it and gives us his blessing, that is all that matters,” shrugged Donar. “When we handfast, it will be in secret. We will not be used against each other, or against him.”

 

 

Mira raised their intertwined fingers to kiss Donar’s knuckles. She seemed between veils, allowing Agron to see several of her faces. How many people was she, to protect Nasir? A moment later, she stepped away, a dutiful woman, so beautiful and harmless. Agron wondered how many in the palace knew of her true purpose. Donar knew her true face.

 

 

Agron tapped his bowl against Donar’s and nodded. It was gratitude and a promise, that he would lay down his life for Nasir and keep the truth of Mira deeply buried. Nasir had allowed him to know such secrets, why? And why did Nasir encourage him in continuing to understand this complicated place?

 

 

Agron tried to find out. He listened to many people and asked many questions. He learned of Lugo’s family, the pain he had suffered in their place, his many travels and how he had decided that this was the kind of freedom he valued most.

 

 

“I am hammer in his hands,” Lugo claimed. “Is all I need.”

 

 

Saxa laughed gutturally when Agron approached her and spilled words like escaping beads. Her gestures were filthy and so were her stories, but in-between were secret words telling of the blood on her hands and the regrets she didn’t have. Once, Agron caught sight of her in an alcove pressed up against Belesa, a full-bodied serving girl, who laughed and kissed with equal force. When at Nasir’s side, Saxa was expressive but she appeared only interested in the _ama_. She was the raging fire to Mira’s unnerving cool.

 

 

Agron relayed all the stories he heard to Nasir. Sometimes the _ama_ asked Agron to accompany him when he walked the palace grounds, observing the Chosen Men and Guards training and wondering aloud about the latest received news of his kingdom and those beyond its borders. Agron was quiet and civil, but inside he felt a pull towards Nasir the more that they talked, as though a thread was tying them together.

 

 

He spent a lot of time in the Sol, lighting candles, whispering prayers. More than once, he found Sibyl there. Her pretty hands moved in prayer gestures and her voice was strong and confident as she spoke holy words with ease. Her shy quietness melted away here, she thrummed with faith.

 

 

She smiled whenever she saw him, as though she did not know the thoughts that rotted in him, thoughts of the man she loved. She brushed by him, giving him space for his own prayers but always leaving a space for him beside her, should he wish to share her words and gestures. One afternoon, when thoughts of Duro chased him more strongly than usual; he stepped into the space and let her words wash over him.

 

 

Eventually, a soft silence fell and her small hand pressed to his empty one. “I will say prayers for him.”

 

 

Agron kept his eyes closed and managed to nod his head. He could not thank her for such a boon, for making Nasir so happy. Sibyl’s hand gently touched his face, like a blessing, then she was gone in a silky whisper of skirts. Agron didn’t leave the Sol himself until some time later.

 

 

He sparred with Spartacus, Donar, Lugo, and Crixus. Crixus never complimented him, but he nodded at what Agron achieved. Agron watched him spar with Naevia, the rage in their movements, the love in their eyes. If he looked hard enough, he could see the blood on Naevia’s skin. He didn’t ask her for more stories.

 

 

*

 

 

“And what have you learned?” Nasir asked, a sweet delicacy held between his fingers.

 

 

Agron could not have looked away even if he’d wanted to. “Truth. Trust.”

 

 

Nasir smiled and bit into the sweet morsel. Paste coated his fingers and he licked them clean. Agron swallowed hard. He was learning the truth that was layered within the palace and he was sure that there was more to discover, if he was permitted. He had learned that many who worked there were ignorant of the relationships and of the truth of who people were. He had been allowed to dig, observed studiously as he did so, but allowed. Because Nasir wanted him to know.

 

 

It was not a thing he could treat lightly. It was a great honour, Nasir's trust, and he yearned each day for Nasir’s smile, it was a physical ache. And as he learned more stories, more truths of this place, his feet became more firmly planted in it, and not just because he was seeking an honourable death. In his dreams, when Nasir was not sighing against his skin, Duro was laughing with joy.


	7. My Most Beloved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : contains violence and a brief scene of sexual assault. See end notes for more details.

 

 

Lugo ran down the hallway roaring “Word has come! Romus moves to the east!”

 

 

The ladies, adorned with jewels and _meni,_ gasped and fluttered, and the Chosen Men exchanged loaded glances. How many Romus were marching? To what purpose? Agron wanted to run to Nasir’s side, to stand with him as his brow furrowed and he called a council. Crixus would want to demolish them, to slay all who had had some part in hurting the _ama_ , and in hurting his own beloved. The thought made Agron’s blood heat in violent anticipation.

 

 

Nasir had good advisers; he had Crixus and Naevia and Spartacus, and behind closed doors there was also Saxa, Mira, Sibyl, and Laeta, different points of advantage, who saw what the Chosen Men and the Voice could not. Agron gritted his teeth and prayed, curses filling his head.

 

 

Eventually, after he’d patrolled hallways and sparred with Donar, Crixus marched past, calling for a handful of Chosen Men. Donar was one of them, he clasped Agron’s forearm firmly, his gaze drifting to Nasir – and secretly also to Mira – nodding before he left. Nasir watched them leave, a large group of Guards joining the march.

 

 

“Agron.”

 

 

Nasir called his name and when Agron turned, the _ama_ was stood imperious and determined. “Come, I would have your words as distraction. Laeta, see that we have food enough for when the men return victorious.”

 

 

Laeta nodded and strode towards the kitchens, her posture straight and firm. Agron followed Nasir into a private room, Mira and Saxa joining them. Nasir looked concerned.

 

 

“Why the east? It is a border well-protected.”

 

 

He didn’t appear to expect an answer as he grasped a piece of fruit. His gaze locked onto Agron and his mouth contorted with surprising apologies. “I expect no words from you, Agron. I find your presence a reassurance, much needed in times such as these.”

 

 

Agron’s eyebrows raised in surprise. He had been told, many times by Donar, that he was favoured by the _ama_ , but to hear such compliments from the man himself was a very different thing. It increased the wanting ache inside of him, combined with the pained remembrance of Nasir’s arm around Sibyl. Nasir might favour Agron’s company, but he already had one who made him happy, one who would provide him with an heir. There was pain at such a memory, but the enjoyment that Agron felt, the pleasure that coursed through him simply from basking in the _ama_ ’s presence was enough. He would make the most of it; it was an opportunity that he could not let go of, not now, not until Nasir banished him or…Agron was willing to die for him.

 

 

Nasir’s previous words snaked their way through Agron’s thoughts. Why had the Romus people attacked now? He frowned, previous meetings and knowledge intercutting as he considered it all. Laeta rushed through the door, her cheeks flushed and her hair, for once, not immaculate.

 

 

“The girl who washes the bed linen…”

 

 

“She has revealed her true loyalties?” Nasir followed the train of thought immediately.

 

 

“She was signalling at her window.” Laeta’s eyes were wild and pleading, full of unnerved knowledge. “Rumours reach us of the Romus attacking at one of Soman’s furthest borders, drawing your most notorious men away.”

 

 

“Yet we are still here,” Nasir quickly got to his feet. “See that the girl is locked away and tell the remaining Chosen Men and Guards to prepare, we have a battle of our own it seems.”

 

 

Laeta left as quickly as she’d arrived. Saxa and Mira both produced small but sharp blades, the sort a woman might grasp if worried for her life. Still, they would be underestimated. They would stay with Nasir.

 

 

“We have time to prepare, to call the others back,” Agron said quietly, unsheathing his sword, body thrumming with the anticipated pleasure of a fight, of deserved blood spilt.

 

 

Nasir did not look frightened, Saxa had handed him a sword. He had fought in skirmishes as an even younger man, for he was not preparing to be _ama_ then – his brother had been learning that position. Nasir was no helpless princeling. Agron’s breath felt weighted, his chest tight as he conjured images of a victorious Nasir, wearing his enemies’ blood.

 

 

Nasir was shaking his head, his brow furrowed. “To approach from beyond Cull gives us too much time to prepare. The girl gave the signal; they must be within the palace grounds…”

 

 

There was a crash and a yell – the battle had found them. Agron’s blood was even higher and the vicious look on Nasir’s face made it heat further.

 

 

“They know not who they are facing,” the _ama_ intoned.

 

 

Mira jerked her chin towards the door. “There are safer rooms.”

 

 

Nasir nodded, putting his safety immediately into the hands of those who would protect him at all costs. The web of secrets that he had spun around himself would also offer great protection; he was a young ruler who was constantly surrounded by beautiful women and strong men. A visitor, even many who lived in the palace itself, might believe the _ama_ was ruled by his infamous warriors, that they were truly the ones holding the power, that he was a mere pleasure-seeker empty of knowledge and warrior skill. But they did not know of his hand in Naevia’s freedom, they did not see how the hardened warriors with great names deferred to his wisdom, how he listened to them in turn, how passionately he cared for his kingdom, how his word was the only one that everybody obeyed.

 

 

They truly did not know who they faced.

 

 

The hallway was clear, Saxa led the way, her eyes glinting, determined to find a fight. Agron followed Mira, she would not let him close to Nasir, it was for herself and Saxa to stand at his side. Frustration clawed at Agron but he did not fight her, they had a common enemy to face.

 

 

Just as they reached a crossing of hallways, there was a flash of bladed movement and then Agron was blocking a sword with his own. Saxa yelled and slit the throat of a fair-haired man brandishing a scimitar. Blood sprayed across her, with her teeth flashing triumphantly, she looked like a vengeful spirit. Agron smashed the hilt of his sword to the head of the man before him as Mira led Nasir onwards. There were a lot of men filling the palace, men who were not being stopped. Were there so few Chosen Men and Guards left? Were there so many unfaithful to the _ama_?

 

 

Agron snarled at such a thought and plunged his sword into the gut of a man with a cut of cloth disguising his face. Agron could feel something vaguely like pain across his arms and back. If he was bleeding, it was no great hardship. Nasir lived.

 

 

They reached Nasir’s room – the door was heavy and enforced and apparently there was a plan because Mira was talking seriously about ladders and ropes, just as Saxa appeared, armed with a sword made for a large man.

 

 

“Agron!” Nasir turned, sudden and wild. His countenance had been calm and determined until now. “Sibyl. If they cannot have me, her pain would be wound enough.”

 

 

She could be taken, or killed, whatever they did to her, it would hurt Nasir. Sibyl did not deserve such treatment. Agron wanted to protest, he wanted to stay with Nasir, he wanted to ensure the _ama_ ’s safety, to take the wounds meant for him. Only…this was a wound he could take. Sibyl was Nasir’s chosen, Agron would protect him and his happiness.

 

 

Nasir looked at him, great seriousness hardening his expression, and he spoke as though passing on a benediction. “Find her.”

 

 

The pain was not great to hear such worry and care in his voice and Agron swiftly ignored it. He looked at Nasir, at his sweating bloodied skin, at his strength and beauty, at his determination to remain unfelled. If this was the last image Agron had of Nasir, it was all he needed.

 

 

Agron tore himself away and ran.

 

 

*

 

 

It was as though he didn’t run alone; Duro’s legs ran with him, Duro’s breath haunted his ears and ghosted his skin. Duro’s voice urged him to seek bloodshed. Agron did not know how many he cut down as he ran, he only felt the warmth of their blood as he passed.

 

 

Where was Sibyl? He listened and sought, until a cry caught his ear. He ran until he reached a wrenched-open door, he entered the room to find that Sibyl was not alone. A swarthy figure in the rough clothes of one who could have been working amongst the _ama_ ’s animals was clutching Sibyl to his chest, his mouth hot and foul against her cheek. One of his hands was beneath her clothing.

 

 

Sibyl turned at the noise of Agron’s footsteps, her eyes frightened and her body fighting against the force that held her. Agron’s rage boiled over. He did not hesitate. His sword cut along the man’s back before the stranger could speak, severing and gouging, a conduit of Agron’s fury. The man tried to use Sibyl as a shield but she resisted and Agron forced himself to stay his mind, to ensure that he struck true. Here, he had to focus.

 

 

The man dropped to the floor, curses spilling forth with his dying breaths. Agron plunged his sword through the man’s side, just to be certain. He checked outside the room, no one stalked towards them. He looked to Sibyl; she was shaking, blood and gore soaking her blue skirts and pale skin. Her hair had been torn from its bindings and waved frantically about her face as she stumbled towards him. Before he could say a word, she tightly wrapped her arms around him. Agron could feel her heart beating wildly like a bird’s wings; he could feel her hot silent tears. He could do nothing but find a place to sit, far from her attacker’s corpse, and hold her. His words began as mutterings of revenge and awkward reassurances before they fell to prayers familiar to them both. Before, she had prayed for him, now he would return the favour twice-over. She would not let of him. Agron trusted no other to keep her safe now.

 

 

This was where Nasir found them, minutes, maybe hours later. He dropped his sword immediately and pressed careful reverent hands to Sibyl’s face, his lips grazing her skin, reassuring them both. He pressed his forehead to hers for long moments. Agron's attention was torn between watching them and watching the doorway.

 

 

“Victory is won,” Nasir said at last. “We have bodies and prisoners. Word has been sent that a fight continues at the eastern border.”

 

 

Agron managed to nod and was shocked to feel first Nasir's hand in his hair, then Nasir's lips pressed to his forehead. It was as though lightning had struck him. It made his throat thicken and his body would have trembled if it was not carrying such importance. Nasir's eyes were full of something dear and precious when he pulled away to gaze at Agron.

 

 

“Such service deserves great reward. I...I cannot thank you enough.”

 

 

His voice was cracked and all Agron could think was that he had made the _ama_ happy. He moved as though to pass Sibyl into Nasir's arms, but Sibyl made a noise of distress and held tighter to Agron. Nasir's smile wasn't one of sadness or anger. Instead he brushed a hand through her hair and before Agron could take a breath, Nasir leaned in and kissed him, his mouth lingering for only a moment.

 

 

Agron was without words, or breath. Nasir's expression was grateful and so filled with warm affection that Agron could not look away. He could not believe what he was seeing. Nasir pressed affectionate fingers to Agron's lips; there were no words of explanation, only an overflow of care in his eyes. Agron could feel it in his skin; he wanted to bathe in it.

 

 

“Come.”

 

 

As Agron, numb with shock, carefully rose to his feet, Mira and Saxa appeared in the doorway. They did not comment on Sibyl's crumpled form, on Agron's arms carrying her close, or on Nasir's hand on Agron's arm. They merely led the way, silently, to Nasir's room.

 

 

Inside, a large tub of steaming water was being prepared. Laeta was scenting the water herself and overseeing the girls who carried the water in. She looked calm and in control once more and not surprised at the group's state as they made their way inside. She inclined her head.

 

 

“There is food ready when you are, Your Grace.”

 

 

Nasir nodded back and then turned all this attention to Sibyl. He cupped her face, the two of them staring at each other for a long moment. Agron did not feel Sibyl's weight in his arms; he was captured by the two beautiful people so close to him, wrapped up in each other's gazes. He was still concerned with the feel of a kiss on his lips, a kiss that had not been a dream. Was that the ama's gratitude? It surely could not be anything more.

 

 

Nasir smiled, as though he and Sibyl had reached an understanding, because slowly, she unwound herself from Agron's embrace and allowed herself to lean on Nasir and Laeta who began to unclasp the fastenings of her dress. It was a sudden hard cut of reality - Agron did not belong here.

 

 

“I will wait outside.”

 

 

It was a slight question, seeking the _ama_ 's permission. Nasir nodded, yet Agron found himself lingering, not wanting Sibyl out of his sight. He did not doubt that Nasir, Saxa, and Mira could protect her, but still he felt the tug to stay, to watch over her, to ensure her safety, as he had once done for Duro and now did for Nasir. Another thread was now binding him it seemed.

 

 

Sibyl raised her head and looked at him, her fingers reaching for his wrist, tapping out the cadence of a prayer of thankfulness there. They both had much to pray about. Agron grasped her hand and bowed his head over it – he would not see her so hurt again, he would not allow it.

 

 

For now, he would guard her privacy. He left quickly and closed the door as Nasir and Laeta aided Sibyl. In his restless silent solitude, Agron's thoughts were unable to resist preoccupation as he trailed confused fingers across his lips, as though attempting to recapture that bewildering captivating moment. Oh, he would be preoccupied for some time to come. Was this a story he had yet to ask about? Was it a question that, if Agron dared to ask, the _ama_ would answer?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning**  
>  Brief scene of sexual assault - a distressed female character is discovered fighting off a large male attacker who is molesting her beneath her clothing.


	8. Will You Light My Candle?

 

 

Agron did not feel the pain of his injuries as he guarded the _ama_ 's room. He saw bodies taken away, he saw scurrying serving girls, and Guards and Chosen Men who he exchanged stories with, only personally revealing that he had protected Sibyl and that the _ama_ was recovering from the ordeal. He listened to their stories and held them close to place before Nasir when the time arose.

 

 

Eventually, the door opened and Laeta breezed out, whatever weight she carried secreted behind an impressive mask. How many in the palace had such a nature? Agron could count Laeta, Sibyl, Mira, Saxa, Crixus, Donar, Naevia, and Spartacus as those trusted to know the _ama_ 's truths. But who did they trust in turn? And were there more truths hidden from him, held even more secret?

 

 

“You are needed,” Laeta told him.

 

 

She left, to likely ensure no other girls in her employ had been working towards the same plan as the spy currently locked in dungeons beneath the sand. She left and Agron took only a moment to gather himself before he pushed past the door. He was needed and he would not let the ama down. His confusion contorted his insides, his sinew and skin, his heart. Duro had always been able to kick through such a mood, he would have thumped Agron and said _you fuck, he needs you_. His confusion could be spat out later, that story could wait.

 

 

Sibyl lay upon the large bed, her hair a wreath of darkness on the pillows, her eyes large and seeking him. Nasir lay beside her, an arm secure around her waist – no one was taking her. Saxa and Mira had melted from the room, how? Wait, there was a door in the wall, perhaps to another room where they could remain ready. Agron stood, awkward and unsure, awaiting instruction or command.

 

 

Nasir's smile was unexpectedly wry and he nudged Sibyl. “She commands your presence this night.”

 

 

Sibyl's eyes were imploring and were full of fear and fight, as they had been when Agron had found her struggling against a stranger. The memory made Agron's anger spike, Nasir's words cut through the haze.

 

 

“Is that your blood?”

 

 

Nasir was on his feet a moment later, dipping a stretch of cloth in the bathing water. Agron protested. “Your Grace, you can’t...I should...”

 

 

Nasir's eyes scanned him with unbelievable concern. It made Agron breathless but he held out his hand and Nasir passed him the soaked cloth. The _ama_ was not offended by Agron's refusal, for surely he understood that he shouldn't be tending to Agron. The idea was ridiculous. But Nasir and Sibyl both watched as Agron ran the cooling water over his back and chest, a painful sting revealing his injuries. Another warm soft cloth was provided to wipe away the blood and water. Their eyes never left him.

 

 

He approached, discomfort and want and need knotting inside of him. Sibyl was the one who reached out, her delicate fingers tracing shapes about his wrist.

 

 

“We still have more prayers.”

 

 

There was room beside her and when Agron obediently lay down, Sibyl buried her face against his chest. It was easy to slide his arms around her, to feel her hair and flesh, to concentrate on her heartbeat. She sought safety and he would provide it.

 

 

Then there was a hand in his hair again and Nasir smiled at him. Agron's questions heightened, but he could wait. He'd have to, no matter how loud they were inside of him. Some things were more important.

 

 

He resolutely closed his eyes, the image of Nasir smiling at him, hair loose and body languid and trusting, burned into his mind. The last thing he heard before sleep dragged him under was Sibyl, praying almost under her breath, the words a soothing comfort, an anchor he could hold to, mixed in with something that he was sure was a dream.

 

 

“My Shadow...”

 

 

*

 

 

Agron woke when Sibyl removed herself from his arms. There were voices and Agron sat up immediately, pulse racing. But it was Mira and Saxa, Saxa was carefully checking Sibyl's shoulder and Mira was tasting a plate of food. Nasir was sat on the bed, wearing only a loose pair of cream _mattas_. It felt so like a dream that Agron nearly sunk back down amongst the sheets, but then Nasir smiled at him and spoke, so Agron's attention was caught there instead.

 

 

“Sibyl is well, for which I have you to thank.”

 

 

Agron dipped his head and forced forward the truth. “She is your happiness.”

 

 

Nasir blinked slowly and nodded. “Walk with me.”

 

 

Saxa winked at Agron and Mira smiled a secretive smile that Agron had not seen before. It did not ease him. Sibyl did, she mouthed a string of prayer at him. Such words settled around Agron's heart and he almost smiled as Nasir took a seat in his favoured room for private meetings. It felt emptier than before, perhaps because of the previous night's violence, coupled with the knowledge that Crixus, Naevia, Spartacus, Donar, and so many others were still fighting at the eastern border. The palace could be emptier still.

 

 

Nasir's gaze was intent upon him; it stoked fire and questions within Agron. Nasir appeared to sense this because he sat back, relaxed and ready.

 

 

“First, your questions.”

 

 

One leapt instantly to the front of Agron's thoughts. He could feel his lips still burning with the memory of that unexpected kiss. The _ama_ wanted him to speak of it, Duro would not have been afraid to voice such thoughts. He would have demanded another kiss from one who stirred him so. Duro always demanded a lot, Duro was dead.

 

 

_You're not, brother._

And there was that starkness again in Nasir’s expression, a truthfulness and a clear desire to hear Agron speak the questions stoppered up inside of him. Agron would always seek to make the _ama_ happy, so he took a deep breath and tried.

 

 

“She is your beloved, and yet...last night...”

 

 

“That was not mere gratitude,” Nasir gracefully cut in, indicating for Agron to move closer. “I do not play such games, not with one so trusted and who I admire so much.”

 

 

He paused and grasped Agron's wrist, gently pressing the spray of Agron's fingers to his own warm bare chest, to the firm beat of his heart. Agron was transfixed.

 

 

“Not with one who is placed here.”

 

 

Agron's gaze darted to Nasir's face, to the hunger and desire raw and brilliant there. Gods, he wanted to dive in and return the kiss, he wanted to return it a hundred times over. But...

 

 

“Sibyl.”

 

 

Nasir's smile curled. “She has her place here also, but you have not asked her for her story. If you had, you would know that the place she occupies is far different from yours.”

 

 

Far different? The previous _ama_ had had many lovers, a crowd who had lived in the palace. Who the mothers of his sons were was the subject of many a story. Agron shook his head, a surge of possessiveness whipping through him, its intensity red-hot. He had never enjoyed sharing that which he loved. He could not do so even with Sibyl, one that he found he cared for in a way he'd not thought possible since Duro's passing. He could never share Duro either.

 

 

Nasir darted upward and kissed Agron was a sweetness that made Agron whimper. He was caught by the thread that had been binding them together for many days now and by the addictive nature of Nasir's mouth. How could he refuse this? He pressed forward, his hand tentatively, disbelievingly, stroking through Nasir's soft dark hair. Nasir broke the kiss, their mouths close, their breaths hot and meaningful. Agron's heart was full and pained with confusion. This was never to be his. How could it be?

 

 

“Find her.”

 

 

The echo was bittersweet and Nasir carefully sat back, giving Agron space to obey. Agron was breathing heavily, his thoughts far scattered. But the look in Nasir's eyes remained the same – he was hungry for Agron, he _desired_ him? Agron could feel the rawness of his own lips. This was no dream, this was his story.

 

 

And there was still more stories to gather. If he heard them, would the world begin to make sense again? Would answers provide meaning? Saxa and Mira entered the room, in step and both dressed in red. Saxa's expression curved wickedly, but Mira wore a tranquil look. Had she seen a man so bewitched by Nasir before? Had she seen Nasir in such a state previously?

 

 

Agron could have his answers.

 

 

He left, before he began asking questions aloud.

 

 

*

 

 

Sibyl was the only occupant of the Sol when Agron entered it. She wore white and green, the colours overlapping and the fabric revealing where her skin was broken. Her hand was steady as she lit candles though. Agron’s gaze roamed from injury to injury, his mind and blood boiling. Why couldn’t he wipe away those marks? Why?

 

 

Sibyl lit a last candle and began praying. Agron’s voice fell into step with hers, his hands shaping the same forms that hers did. He forced himself to think of Duro, he had never had to force himself to do so before. Duro had always been fresh and raw, his blood, his last words. He wasn’t fading, but he was allowing others to share the space that he alone had consumed for so long. Agron grabbed for him but Duro feinted away, his laugh a faint affectionate thing.

 

 

The fingers at Agron’s wrist were familiar. He held onto them.

 

 

“Why are you here?”

 

 

Agron opened his eyes as he asked and Sibyl’s smile rose at one corner. She was not upset for his blunt vague question nor she did not seem confused by it. In fact, she seemed to take such occurrences in her stride. Was that why she was at Nasir’s side?

 

 

“Nasir did not save my life. Gannicus did.”

 

 

Gannicus? Agron could not have been more surprised to hear that fuck’s name from Sibyl’s young lips. Gannicus, who had been undefeated as he’d fought on the streets for money, wine and women. Gannicus who had held loyalty to nobody. How did _Sibyl_ know him?

 

 

His question went unspoken because Sibyl began an answer unheeded.

 

 

“I was a slave in a Romus house, favoured greatly by my master. I knew no other life. One day, as he often did, my master took me out to market. He had trades to make and he enjoyed making wagers on the fights between animals and between free men. That day, when Gannicus fought and my master laid a wager, the prize was me.”

 

 

She didn’t look upset by her story, only as though she was merely stating simple facts. Agron had fought on the streets for less – for money, for food – but never for anybody’s life other than his own. Gannicus had only ever fought for himself, so why had he accepted a wager that involved a stranger?

 

 

Sibyl shook her head, something surprisingly bitter in her eyes. “I thought…He won and my master refused to let me go so Gannicus made sure that he did. I followed Gannicus afterwards but he told him to go, that I owed him nothing, that I should avoid men like him.”

 

 

The gaps in her story were growing but Agron could see it clearly, Sibyl’s slim form and Gannicus’s refusals. At least he hadn’t forced her gratitude into something that she was unwilling to give; only she didn’t seem unwilling. In fact, she seemed to be…

 

 

“He was the reason for your tears,” Agron realised aloud.

 

 

“For many of them.” Sibyl’s bitterness was growing. It made Agron want to reach for Gannicus with curled fists and bloodied sword. “I continued to follow him, to see him enjoy other women and great quantities of wine, but he would not see me as more than a girl, a girl he frequently turned his eyes from. To afford myself food, I sewed for the marketplace traders. My ability reached Laeta’s ear and when I was brought to the palace and met Nasir, everything changed again.”

 

 

Agron nodded slowly, scraps of information sliding together. “So he did save you.”

 

 

Sibyl’s smile lost its bitterness and became sweet and lovely. “He liked talking to me. Some time later, I was no longer sewing but keeping him company instead. He says that I keep the faith for him.”

 

 

It didn’t sound like the story of a great love. Some of Agron’s confusion lingered and Sibyl stepped closer, a determination fuelling her and making him pay attention.

 

 

“I know Nasir has thanked you. This is from me alone. I fought but it was not enough and nobody could hear me…but you came for me and…thank you.”

 

 

It was deeply heartfelt and all Agron could do was dip his head. “The _ama_ commanded me to keep you safe.”

 

 

“I’m very glad he did.” Sibyl’s tiny hand cupped his chin and lifted his gaze. “I would be always glad of such a thing. I need a Shadow, and I want it to be you.”

 

 

It hadn’t been a dream; Agron thought dumbly, her words as he had spiralled into sleep. She wanted him for such an exalted position? Sibyl smiled at his expression.

 

 

“Rumours will spread that you are required for my bed, as rumours spread of Saxa and Mira's place beside Nasir. It will give Laeta new whispers to chase. Until you, I had not found one I trusted enough to walk at my side each day, there was only Nasir but he cannot devote himself to my safety.”

 

 

“I…”

 

 

Agron’s words died out. He had fiercely thought not so long ago that he alone would see to Sibyl’s safety. In this, he could truly make Nasir happy, he could ensure the _ama_ ’s beloved was never used against him or taken or hurt. But what place did Sibyl hold in Nasir’s heart? He claimed it was different to Agron’s standing there. The thought of listening to them rut, seeing them kiss; the pain would needle each day. That was not a small thing.

 

 

Sibyl called for his attention. “I will bear the _ama_ ’s children, but I am not his love and he is not mine. We knew this long before you arrived and captured his heart.”

 

 

Agron’s eyes widened, his heart thrumming at such words, and Sibyl’s smile strengthened.

 

 

“Nasir loves me, but as a dearly favoured friend, not a deep abiding love. My heart was stolen before I saw his face.”

 

 

Her bitter look was back and Agron could not help the disbelief and disgust filling his words as he voiced a realisation. “Not the long-haired fuck.”

 

 

Sibyl laughed, despite the pain clear in her face. “The heart chooses without permission. I have seen good and gentleness in Gannicus. Perhaps one day he will allow himself to see it too, or maybe my love for him will fade and I will find another.”

 

 

There were plenty more deserving of her, Agron thought. He shook his head slightly. “Why would you agree to this life?”

 

 

“For Nasir. I am comfort and reassurance, he knows I am not against him, he knows his child will be raised for Soman. I can give him that. Also if I can do anything to stop the Romus from rising up and swallowing Soman, then I will.”

 

 

Sibyl was small and slim, but there was strength in her words and a determination that made her appear lit by fire. Her life was a sacrifice for the sake of her kingdom and, thanks to the friendship she enjoyed with Nasir, it would not be an unhappy life. But it would be filled with danger, as the previous day had shown. Agron glanced down, he could do something for the kingdom too, he could ensure its leadership, its ruling line.

 

 

And Sibyl, who knew Nasir perhaps better than anyone, claimed that it was Agron who was truly Nasir’s beloved. It seemed Agron had his answers, now he had to decide what to do with them.

 

 

The first part was easy. He nodded. “It would be an honour to walk in your footsteps.”

 

 

Sibyl’s smile was beautiful and full and she wrapped her arms around him, a gentle happy embrace. Her lips brushed his cheek, a gesture he returned. This was a purpose he could fulfil.

 

 

“Nasir will speak to you first.”


	9. Threads

 

 

Nasir was wearing a _kelsmar_ now, one that matched his _mattas_. Saxa was talking with him, Mira nowhere to be seen but that did not mean that she was not nearby. Nasir’s face lit up when Agron approached, a fact that made new fire burn through Agron. Nasir's expression was no lie, it was real and it was for Agron. Nasir gestured and Saxa disappeared through a doorway. She was unlikely to be out of hearing distance. Nasir never had any privacy, but he lived.

 

 

“I am to be a Shadow.”

 

 

The words tumbled from Agron’s mouth, undone by the naked affection directed at him by Nasir. It was as good a place as any to start. But Gods, this man wanted him? This man, this leader, was willing to carve out a favoured place for Agron?

 

 

Nasir smiled. “Sibyl must be pleased.”

 

 

Agron thought of Sibyl’s shining eyes and nodded. Sibyl’s happiness had been a bright beautiful thing, something to marvel at. How had Gannicus been able to constantly push her away? The man was too foolish to live. Nasir was looking at him as though he expected to hear more, as though there was more left to say.

 

 

Agron swallowed, his heartbeat fast and dangerous. Here was the answer that did not fit, that seemed so impossible, as impossible as the future mother of an _ama_ falling in love with a notorious brawler, as impossible as an _ama_ assisting in the death of his own uncle and then raising up his uncle’s killer to happiness and exalted position. Nasir seemed to live miraculously, in a palace full of invisible secrets, most of the surrounding world intent on his death.

 

 

And now he wanted Agron.

 

 

“She told me her story.”

 

 

Nasir nodded. “Gannicus.”

 

 

“Gannicus, and your future.”

 

 

Nasir raised an eyebrow. “ _My_ future?”

 

 

It wasn’t a challenge, it was a question. It was Nasir’s turn to seek answers. He could have commanded Agron to spend nights alone with him, but instead he had waited to see if Agron sought to fight against the _ama_ or pledge himself in loyalty and true feelings. He had waited for Agron.

 

 

Duro was gone, but he waited for Agron too, for when Agron had squeezed more from this life. If Agron fell without cause now, Duro would greet him with more than anger. _Why would you leave him, you fuck? Why?_

 

 

Agron would not be too foolish to live.

 

 

He stepped close enough to taste Nasir’s breath. “Our future.”

 

 

His words were almost consumed by a kiss. Nasir wound eager arms around Agron, securing him, greedy mouth meeting greedy mouth. Agron ran hands over expensive silk and through long hair, his mind spinning with a happiness thought long lost to him. This was his truth now. Nasir was his and he was Nasir’s, something real to hold onto in a careful world of lies.

 

 

Nasir whispered against his lips. “Mine…”

 

 

Agron smiled and pressed as close as he could, their heartbeats thrumming together. Wasn’t everything Nasir’s? Only it wasn’t truly, it all belonged to Soman, just as Nasir did. What was truly his? Sibyl wasn’t, their children wouldn’t be either.

 

 

Agron whispered back. “I share you with the kingdom.”

 

 

Nasir shook his head, his fingers digging into Agron’s flesh. They left behind marks Agron was glad to bear, marks that he desired more of. Then Nasir pulled back and tugged several beaded threads from his forearm. He secured them around Agron’s wrist, his eyes locked onto Agron’s. It felt like a promise.

 

 

“The _ama_ belongs to the kingdom. Nasir does not.”

 

 

Agron’s thoughts stuttered and his heart roared. He’d only ever heard Sibyl call Nasir by his name, rather than his title, and now apparently the privilege was his also. It was a gift, precious and rare, and Agron would bury it beneath his skin, hoarding it for the dark times ahead. Because there would be dark times, Nasir was still the _ama_ and Agron would still die for him. He would die for Sibyl too, because the kingdom should have a future guided by Nasir’s blood and because she should live to see that future. He would die glad that he had gotten to make Sibyl smile, that he had gotten to touch Nasir’s skin and speak his name aloud. He would be glad to see Duro and hear his obscene comments about Agron’s focus on Nasir. He would be glad.

 

 

There was movement and Mira walked into the room without a hint of embarrassment or apology. She respected Nasir and was loyal to a fault, but privately she did not treat him as though he lived so far above her. Perhaps that was why Nasir had chosen her for Shadow duties in the first place.

 

 

Mira did smile though, at their closeness. Nasir did not correct their position and Agron revelled in it.

 

 

“Word from the scouts. Your men are three days ride away.”

 

 

Nasir brightened. “They were victorious.”

 

 

“They were.”

 

 

Donar was among them, that could account for Mira’s smile too. It was another veil of course, but a happy one, if you knew where to look. Agron was learning.

 

 

“Our prayers are answered,” he commented, half buried in thoughts of Sibyl lighting candles, her words that morning for their absent friends.

 

 

Nasir pulled him closer and Agron tipped his head willingly, his heart engulfed once more - Nasir was no longer a fleeting image. Agron hoped to gather more marks on his skin from Nasir, to remind himself that this was no dream, that he should enjoy the pleasure while their hearts still beat, that Nasir had once more granted the impossible.

 

 

Agron prayed that such things would long continue, he had favours to return, he had strings of yearning and need to spell out on Nasir’s flesh. Agron would worship with his hands and lips, he would worship Nasir, everybody else worshipped the _ama_.

 

 

The beads at his wrist were warm. He prayed that that would continue too.

 

 

_-the end_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's it. I'm so thrilled that people have enjoyed this story. It took me a while to write and then let simmer before I began editing it. Thanks for all the support, kudos, and comments, they all meant a lot :)
> 
> Sequel: [A Fool Off His Guard, Could Fall And Fall Hard](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1076182/chapters/2161400).

**Author's Note:**

>  **Translations**  
>  _quasi-ama_ \- beloved leader-to-be  
>  _ama_ \- beloved leader


End file.
